


The "Great" Debate

by loosenoodlepoodledoodle



Series: The Dustbin of History [6]
Category: Political RPF - US 21st c.
Genre: Absurd, Gen, Parody
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-02
Updated: 2020-10-02
Packaged: 2021-03-07 16:21:21
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 702
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26770567
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/loosenoodlepoodledoodle/pseuds/loosenoodlepoodledoodle
Summary: I didn't watch the debate, but I knew right away after reading about it what I wish Joe Biden had said...
Series: The Dustbin of History [6]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2007061
Kudos: 8





	The "Great" Debate

The evening was going unwell, as anyone with at least half a brain could tell. But Trump and his supporters back home were having a blast, owning the libs like they owned each other in their most depraved private fantasies. But reality was about to intrude. Oh boy.

“Will you shut up, man? Just shut the fuck up!” Old Joe had finally run out of tether. And Trump smirked.

“Wipe that grin off your face, you beta-carotene sonofabitch! What are you so happy about? Hey, America! Do you know how much money this guy owes? Four hundred million! Four hundred million smackaroos, and he can’t pay it even if he sold off everything he owns. That’s why he wants to steal the election; he’s safe from from his obligamations if he’s in the White House.”

Trump’s face changed to what passed for a solemn look for him. “Hmm…no, I don’t.”

Old Joe rolled his watery, bloodshot eyes. “Yes, you do, you dumb whippersnapper. And even your supporters all know you’re a liar, they just don’t care. But if they weren’t so bad at math, they’d realize something: you ain’t that rich.”

A dark shadow passed over Trump’s face—Biden had totally gone there. “I’m richer than _you_ , Sleepy Joe.”

Old Joe yawned and went for the kill. “Who cares how much money _I’ve_ got? I didn’t make my name on being a billionaire. But you? You don’t gotta be smart to figure out that four hundred million is less than a billion.”

Trump couldn’t understand what the hell Old Joe had just said. Neither could his supporters.

“Folks, if Trump can’t pay off four hundred million in loans, after selling all his shit, than that means his shit is worth less than four hundred million dollars…”

Perhaps nearly half of Trump’s people could follow this much of the argument.

“And four hundred million is less than one billion, because four hundred million has five zeroes, and one billion has six zeroes…”

Less than ten percent of Trump voters still knew what he was talking about. A solid plurality had gone back to daydreaming about fucking their cousins.

“Therefore, if Trump is worth less than one billion dollars, he is not a billionaire!”

Chris Wallace said in his droll voice, “Can’t argue with _that_ logic,” to which Trump replied, “Look at my giant dick!”

He stepped out in front of his podium, but the bulge in his pants was obviously a banana and two grapefruits. Old Joe laughed out loud.

“You keep wantin’ to distract everybody, but you can’t distract from the fact that there’s blood in the water, man, and the sharks’ll be circling you soon…”

Trump frowned. Old Joe had sounded like a mobster there for a second, the only language Trump could really understand. He cleared his throat. It sounded disgusting.

_“Hrrruuukrruuupppphhhh!_ Says Sleepy Joe, who had to give his kid a job in Ukraine.” And he gave two thumbs down. The crowd, or rather, His crowd, went wild at home.

“Oh, that old bullshit, again? You got a lot of nerve complaining about my son, when you gave your own daughter lots of cushy jobs, and outsourced your administration to your in-law, a slum lord!”

One of those words was too big for Trump and his people. They paused, staring blankly, mouth-breathing. Finally, Trump managed a weak, “I know what _you_ are, but what am _I?”_

“A dumbass.”

“Takes one to know one!”

“Oh, you motherfucker!”

And the Spirit of Wrath possessed Biden then, pouring strength into his veins. He yanked his podium off the ground and threw it at that fat fuck, utterly braining him. Although to be honest, the Orange One’s skull was hollow save for a moldy bean paste, which had been placed there years ago because God has a sick sense of humor, and we are all doomed.

One month later, brain-dead Trump successfully stole the election, because in reality Trump’s rise depended primarily on the wills of others, in particular the will to evil of the MAGAs, and the limp-dick dickery of Democrats and independents. Plus, a brain-dead Trump turned out to be a functional improvement over the real Donald Trump. The End


End file.
